


A Family Trait

by intricatearticulation (chemma66)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitter Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, POV Alternating, Parentlock, Post-Coital Cuddling, Smut, baby's first crime scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10028318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/intricatearticulation
Summary: Set post-S4, John is back at home with Rosie in Baker Street. He's working on a lot of things, including building his trust with Sherlock once more. An emergency shift at the clinic jumpstarts the process, forcing John to leave Rosie at home with only Sherlock to watch her.Sherlock does his best and John makes a mistake, but everyone is happy in the end.Developing Johnlock - first chapter can be read as a gen standalone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my beta [myowneviltwin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myowneviltwin/pseuds/myowneviltwin) for emailing at the perfect time and letting me know exactly what I needed to make this fic better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my beta [myowneviltwin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myowneviltwin/pseuds/myowneviltwin) for emailing at the perfect time and letting me know exactly what I needed to make this fic better.

In truth, it takes ages for them to finally have everything settled back in 221b. Sherlock should really not be so hard on himself for not noticing; Rosie is quite clever for a baby. She is a Watson, after all.

 

What’s clear immediately is that Rosie is difficult to entertain. She often becomes frustrated with her toys, she doesn’t enjoy the colorful books John insists on reading her, and she often cries even harder when they try a simple lullaby. Sherlock has watched her closely and knows it’s nothing more than her burgeoning temper mixed with curiosity, because… well, she’s a Watson. But what he can’t figure out is a solution.

 

John can barely keep up, regardless. Between cases, shifts at the surgery, selling his old house, and taking care of a temperamental child, John Watson is strung quite thin. Sherlock offers to help quite often, but John often fabricates excuses or brushes him off. It hurts, but Sherlock has come to understand that that’s just a part of this sentiment thing. Apparently he’s gotten himself surrounded by it.

 

But when he looks around at this family,  _ his _ family, he can’t find it in himself to be bothered like he used to about the concept.

 

John is working on trusting Sherlock once more and that’s fine. As long as he’s home, as long as Rosie and John are safe, Sherlock truly believes they can handle anything at this point. They’ve been through enough to prove that unequivocally. 

 

Sherlock finally understands  _ why _ Rosie has been so difficult, and really, the answer was quite obvious. It dawns on him one Wednesday afternoon, and with it, the best solution he could have ever asked for.

 

John is coaxing Rosie through her breakfast that morning when his mobile starts ringing. He doesn’t hear it, of course, because it’s on vibrate and in the living room where Sherlock is sprawled across the couch.

 

“John,” Sherlock mumbles, waving in the direction of the phone buzzing across the stack of papers on the table.

 

There’s commotion in the kitchen, but it sounds much like a baby spitting up some unpleasant sweet potato rather than John coming to fetch his phone.

 

The buzzing ceases and Sherlock returns to his Mind Palace to examine a case that Lestrade will, no doubt, be contacting him with in no less than two days. It’s been picked up by the papers already and Sherlock knows the man is stumped.

 

The vibrations begin once more, and this time Sherlock cracks open an eye to watch the phone as it buzzes its way across the sloping stack of detritus.

 

“John, your phone is ringing again,” Sherlock says a little louder this time.

 

He hears a shuffle and footsteps approaching before John and Rosie make their way to the living room. Sherlock sees instantly that while John considers breakfast a moderate success, roughly half of the mashed orange vegetable has landed on his shirt, a quarter on Rosie’s onesie, and a little less than the remaining quarter has been actually consumed. Sherlock, not for the first time, briefly considers employing Rosie’s techniques when he prefers not to eat.

 

“Again? Damn,” John mutters, reaching for the mobile. 

 

He brings it quickly to his ear, Rosie instantly reaching for her favorite toy. John tries to shift his arm away while still supporting her.

 

“Hello?” John says, and whatever voice responds causes a crease to instantly appear between his brows.

 

The more they speak, the further the crease deepens. He glances at Rosie.

 

“I don’t… well, yes. I can’t thank you enough for covering for me,” John says, shifting his stance. The weather has been bothering his shoulder this week and his arm grows tired sooner, though he doesn’t realize it.

 

Sherlock sits up, reaching out for Rosie. John considers him for a moment, relenting with a half-smile when Rosie babbles something and reaches for Sherlock in return.

 

“Yes. I understand, yeah…” John says, pacing a few steps away.

 

“Hello there,” Sherlock says to Rosie as she considers him carefully.

 

She responds in kind, a bit of sweet potato running down her chin.

 

“Did we enjoy breakfast?” Sherlock asks, cradling her head with one hand and using the sleeve of his dressing gown to wipe her face mostly clean. He’s been living in this one for about a week straight, so it’s due for a wash anyways.

 

“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” John says, turning back. 

 

He ends the call with a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.

 

“I’ll watch her,” Sherlock says.

 

“What?” John asks.

 

“The doctor who covered for you last month is cashing in his favor. That was the Kazinski case that I asked you to take off work for, wasn’t it?”

 

“Oh, you asked? That was nice of you,” John answers, crossing his arms. The intimidating effect is somewhat diminished by the mess on his shirt.

 

Sherlock looks down at Rosie. She’s become fascinated with the texture of his dressing gown, which apparently improves the flavor of the sweet potatoes. She has nearly a full mouth of the fabric already.

 

Sherlock pulls the sleeve away and tries again.

 

“I insisted that it was a time-sensitive serial killer and I needed you there immediately. It may not have been a serial killer, John, but we did save someone’s life,” Sherlock says.

 

“Yeah, the life of an idiotic stalker who got himself trapped in a meat locker. Sure,” John says, but his eyes betray his amusement. The conclusion of that case hadn’t been as satisfactory as Sherlock had hoped, but John had stayed by his side without a second thought.

 

Rosie begins to whimper, reaching for Sherlock’s sleeve. Sherlock allows her to take enough to satisfy, but not to choke on. John is smiling when he looks back up.

 

“I can take her, John,” Sherlock pleads.

 

“I know you can, Sherlock. It’s just… I’m not sure I can…” John begins.

 

“It will be the first time she’s alone with me, yes. I can assure you that even though Mrs. Hudson is away and Molly is working, I have appropriate resources at my disposal, should I need them. I can do this.”

 

Sherlock puts a bit more emotion to that last bit than he actually intended. John watches him for a moment and Sherlock feels the examination as though it were a physical thing. He tries to hold Rosie extra carefully and look as capable as possible.

 

“Okay. But two conditions: no experiments, no crime scenes,” John says, pointing a finger in what Sherlock fondly considers his best dad impression.

 

“Agreed,” Sherlock says without a second thought as he looks down at Rosie. He’s already thought of at least six things they can do together that would be entertaining for the both of them.

 

“Sherlock, I mean it. No. Crime. Scenes,” John walks closer, bending down to wipe a bit of dried food from Rosie’s shoulder. “I don’t care if all of bloody London is under attack. You call me first.”

 

Sherlock scoffs.

 

“Rosie is infinitely more important than all of London, John. Any idiot could see that,” Sherlock replies.

 

John smiles, and it’s one of the rare ones that stretch across his face and crease his eyes. 

 

“Correct. Now, I’m going to change and then I’ll say goodbye before I leave,” John explains, more to Rosie than to Sherlock, though Sherlock nods all the same.

 

Sherlock looks down to where Rosie has produced an amazing amount of drool, nearly covering the bottom quarter of his sleeve. 

 

“We’re going to have a wonderful time together, Rosie,” Sherlock says, bending over to nuzzle her nose with his. He’d been wanting to do that for ages, but didn’t want anyone to see. Sherlock fancies that Rosie smiles a little bit at the gesture.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and Rosie were having a terrible time together.

 

John had barely been gone an hour and, no matter what Sherlock did, Rosie would not stop crying. He’d gone through all six of his planned activities, even four he’d made up out of desperation - including bath time and an attempt at a nap, for fuck’s sake - but nothing had appeased her. 

 

Sherlock checked her nappy for the tenth time (clean) and tried to tempt her with a bottle. She continued to wail in his arms.

 

“Rosie, I must say, your ability to scream endlessly is really astounding. I had no idea such a small human was capable,” Sherlock says, though it’s barely audible over Rosie’s hiccuping cries.

 

Sherlock bounces her on his hip, walking over to the window to look down at the people below.

 

“They’re all hateful, Rosie. Yes, let’s shout at them for a bit, hm?”

 

Rosie reaches a fist towards the window as Sherlock brings her closer. 

 

“You can tell a lot about a client from how they approach Baker Street, you know,” Sherlock explains. “Whether they realize it or not, their behavior can often betray their innocence. Or their guilt. Are we a last resort? Have they come to us because they need to be discreet? The possibilities are vast, but I’m usually able to narrow it down. If I’m by the window, that is.”

 

Rosie looks up at him then, coughing something that might be a reply before she continues. Thankfully, the crying has dipped below ear drum-shattering levels, so Sherlock keeps talking.

 

“I tried to explain it to John once, but he refused to believe me,” Sherlock says, thinking fondly of that day. “So I told him to stand by the window for nearly three hours in anticipation of a client so that he could describe the people walking down the street on the chance they were coming to our door. He thought I wouldn’t be able to deduce a client of their innocence from the approach alone.”

 

Sherlock can tell Rosie is listening now: she’s turned to face him, though her eyes are still scrunched in despair and her mouth still emitting noise at an impressive level.

 

“I made him describe anyone approaching our door. Accounting for the traffic on our street and the time of day… well, it was a fair amount of people. And we didn’t end up having a client visit Baker Street in person at all that day.”

 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Rosie’s crying seems to have calmed. Sherlock is too scared to stop talking to fully asses, but he sees a light at the end of their snotty, howl-filled tunnel.

 

“The conclusion?” Sherlock says, as though repeating the question from Rosie. “Well… don’t tell John, but to be honest, I completely forgot the point of the whole thing about an hour into it; I was focused instead on improving John’s observation and deduction skills from the barest amount of information. It was an excellent afternoon. At some point we decided to take a break for takeaway and never came back to it,” Sherlock explains.

 

Sherlock gets lost in the memory for a moment, recalling the easy banter that had filled that day. Sherlock remembers wishing that a client would never show so that he and John could stay in that simple moment together. These days, it felt like nothing could ever be simple again.

 

A sniffle from his arms breaks his thoughts.

 

“Oh no, Rosie, please,” Sherlock begs. “Shall I talk about more cases? I’ll tell you about every single case, if you like.”

 

The near-cry turns into a whimper. Sherlock sends a silent thank you to the universe.

 

“Well, I should leave out a few, to be sure. Though if your first word was murder, I would be endlessly proud. Much more likely for it to be something simpler… like blood, or skull,” Sherlock says, giving Rosie’s nose a gentle poke for good measure. He makes a mental note to start daily interactions with Billy.

 

“John and I have had some incredible cases in our time, but out of the less-bloody affairs, my favorite would be the instance of a stolen gem from the British Museum. It was a ridiculous affair involving a goose and a very confused policeman. I hadn’t wanted to take the case, initially, but John convinced me…”

 

Two hours later and Sherlock is absolutely sick of talking.

 

He and Rosie have moved to the couch, rising only once for a diaper change and a quick snack before delving into more cases. Sherlock rode the elation of solving her boredom, at least for now, but the high wore off once his voice started cracking.

 

“I wish I could just take you out on a case, Rosie. It’s obvious your mind is similar to John’s, you know. Craving the intrigue and adventure. I should’ve realized!” Sherlock says, lifting Rosie into the air.

 

He brings her back to rest on his chest as she swats at his messy curls.

 

“But your father said no crime scenes. None. And we must listen to him,” Sherlock says sternly.

 

Rosie listens and, to Sherlock’s horror, begins the tell-tale hiccup and eye-watering of another epic cry. Sherlock springs to action.

 

“Well! That won’t do. We must find you a case, Rosie. We can do this. We’re clever enough, you and I, to figure this out. What can we do?” Sherlock muses, sitting up with Rosie in his lap.

 

Suddenly, an idea springs to mind. Rosie babbles as she stuffs her fingers into her mouth.

 

“Rosie, you are brilliant. A conductor of light, just like John,” Sherlock says as he kisses her cheek.

 

Sherlock rises with Rosie in his arms and goes to collect his phone from where he left it in the kitchen.

 

“Lestrade owes me a few favors. I think it’s time we called one in, don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s nearly two hours into his shift before John thinks to look at his phone. The ringer is turned on full volume, he knows - he double (and triple, if he’s being honest) checked his phone when he arrived to make sure. It’s firmly in his pocket, a permanent reminder of the daughter he left at home with his best friend.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t think Sherlock can handle a child; he’s always thought Sherlock might have a tendency to be weirdly adept at talking to children, especially after seeing how he was with Archie. It’s that John is still trying to understand where he and Sherlock are in their friendship. Or… whatever it is between them. He’s not sure where he factors into that equation, and he certainly has no idea where Rosie might factor into it.

 

He doesn’t know where they stand in Sherlock’s life anymore. And that frightens him.

 

The rest of the day continues like that: patient after patient, only brief moments in between to check his phone and consider conversations that need to be had. It’s not enough.

 

Finally, the end of the shift is in sight: just a bit of paperwork before he heads home. 

 

It makes sense that his phone finally chimes at that moment.

 

_ Message from Lestrade _

 

John isn’t expecting much of anything when he downloads the attachment. 

 

What he is certainly not expecting, and hoping against all hope to  _ not _ see, is Sherlock and Rosie at a crime scene.

 

The photo is quite striking; John is stunned at first by how striking Sherlock and Rosie look together, staring intently and captivated by the same object or person. The lighting is bright, but there’s a dramatic shadow falling across part of the frame. In the light, Sherlock is holding Rosie closely against his chest, his large hands supporting her head and body. She’s looking with fascination towards something that Sherlock is pointing at outside the frame. Crime scene tape crosses below their faces and frames the shot quite nicely.

 

He almost forgets to be angry, just for a brief moment. He stabs his fingers as angrily as he can manage as he types out a text to Sherlock.

 

_ Sherlock Holmes, are you at a fucking crime scene with my daughter? _

 

A few hastily scribbled charts later, a message appears.

 

_ Of course not, John. I promised you. Rosie is safe. _

 

John reads the careful wording and responds quickly. 

 

_ But is she home? At Baker Street? _

 

The dots appear and disappear three times before a message comes through.

 

_ No. _

 

John rises from his chair, stacking his papers into a pile on his desk. He’ll deal with them later.

 

_ Where are you _

 

He manages a half-hearted wave to the bloke at the front desk before he pushes out the front door. He’s shrugging on his coat in the elevator when the phone chimes again. 

 

_ John, do calm down. Rosie and I can meet you at home and I will explain. _

 

John decides not to smash his phone against the ground, but it’s a near thing.

 

_ Tell me where you are. Now. _

 

His face is stuck in a grimace as he hails a cab. The answer comes quickly after.

 

_ Scotland Yard.  _

 

John doesn’t reply, pleased at least that Sherlock isn’t making any excuses. He betrayed John’s trust and with his  _ daughter _ no less. John can’t imagine a scenario in which Sherlock can explain his way out of this.

 

“New Scotland Yard, as quickly as you can,” John says to the cabbie as he slides into the seat.

 

His phone buzzes with more texts, but he ignores them. Right now the only thing that can calm him is seeing Rosie, whole and well, in front of his eyes. Nothing else matters.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock pockets his phone, Rosie supported in his arms where they’re sitting at a table in an unused room near Lestrade’s office. It was an evidence room with a faulty speaker system, left to be fixed in future budgets and used as a storage room until then. Sherlock had asked to use the room, promising to restore everything to it’s exact place by the end of the day.

 

“John is on his way,” Sherlock says, the dread evident in his tone.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t think he’d-” Lestrade begins.

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, waving away his apologies. “You didn’t intend to make him angry, and hopefully he won’t be, once he understands.”

 

“Right,” Lestrade sighs. “I’ll go wait in my office in case he comes there first. Direct him over here, yeah?”

 

“Please,” Sherlock replies. 

 

Sherlock sits for a moment longer in peace, enjoying his time with Rosie while he can.

 

“Well, Rosie, we didn’t get to solve our crime. But I’m confident in your deductions skills and look forward to working with you in the future,” Sherlock says in mock-seriousness, taking Rosie’s chubby hand in his.

 

Rosie babbles in return, jerking her hand in the direction of the setup they had been examining. Sherlock stands, lifting Rosie high enough to look down on the fake crime scene he’d created for them to examine. He was quite proud and had hoped to tell John all about it when he got off work.

 

Using the boxes in the room to mark off their scene, he’d taken some crime scene tape and surrounded the area. A bit of chalk on the ground did well to make a footprint, and pictures from the casefile stood in place of the evidence. It was a mostly simple burglary with a bit of blackmail thrown in, but Sherlock had just focused on the basics to show Rosie. After her interest in his description of previous cases, Sherlock had determined that Rosie wanted to participate. Keeping in mind John’s rule, he’d come up with this as a solution.

 

Lestrade had come by and participated in the activity during his lunch, delighted in taking Rosie from Sherlock in order to show her “the policeman’s real perspective,” whatever that meant.

 

Sherlock walked Rosie through every observation and, to his utter delight, she’d remained engaged and hadn’t cried  _ once _ during the time they’d been here. Sherlock had been so excited to share the news with John, but now he was on his way and furious, no doubt. 

 

“Yes, the footprint matches that of the assistant,” Sherlock says as Rosie wiggles in that direction. “But his alibi was solid; we’ll have to question him later and determine if he’s lying about something else.”

 

Sherlock bends to bring a photo closer to Rosie so she can see it: a broken lamp knocked from a table nearby, a shattered bulb with the lampshade placed over it as though to hide the mistake.

 

“You see, this is what we should have focused on. The lamp, righted but not hidden - why would the burglar go to the trouble?” Sherlock asks Rosie.

 

Rosie tugs on the photo, smearing a bit of drool in the corner. Sherlock smiles, but it doesn’t feel quite right on his face; the worry has permanently set in: that John might see this mistake as one too many and won’t trust Sherlock with Rosie again.

 

Sherlock tries to prepare for that outcome, but shies away immediately. It seems impossible that everything they’ve been through so far would shatter at such a small instance, and Sherlock refuses to let it happen that easily.

 

A noise from the hallway pulls him from that line of thought. Sherlock tosses the photo onto the table and pulls out his phone to check the time. 

 

“He managed the ride in nearly half the amount of time it usually takes. Hm, must have paid the cabbie extra,” Sherlock explains to Rosie. “Would’ve been much easier just to use something against him. Cabbies are easy to deduce; their environment tells their story so clearly. It’s free and much more fun.”

 

The voices get closer, but Sherlock can’t bear to turn around yet. Just a few more minutes with Rosie, just so they could solve this together, and maybe he can solve the larger problem as well.

 

“-easy on him, mate,” Lestrade says to John as the door swings open.

 

Sherlock turns slightly, offering Rosie before anyone speaks. He knows that John needs to see and feel she’s alright before they can do anything else.

 

“Rosie,” John murmurs, smiling as she squeals in delight once she see him. “Hello, love.”

 

John bends to kiss her on her round cheeks before sneaking a glance at Sherlock. He still looks angry, but it seems that Lestrade has managed to explain at least somewhat.

 

Sherlock squares his shoulders and prepares for the reprimand.

 

“I’ll just…” Lestrade says, reaching into the room to pull the door shut. 

 

They stand in silence for a moment, John holding Rosie close while Sherlock watches.

 

“Alright,” John starts, finally looking up to observe the room around them. “Explain.”

 

“Rosie was… upset when you were gone. She was crying and wouldn’t stop,” Sherlock begins.

 

“You could’ve called me,” John says.

 

“Yes. But I didn’t need to, John. She wasn’t hurt, she was clean and fed and happy.”

 

“Right. I know she gets fussy, I know. But that doesn’t mean-” John starts.

 

“She was bored, John. She needs adventure, just like you. I should have realized it ages ago! Once I started telling her about our cases together, she immediately calmed down.”

 

This seems to surprise John, at least. His face clears of some of the anger and he looks down at his daughter where she’s playing with the buttons on his shirt.

 

“I couldn’t talk forever, though. Well, I could, but I wanted to give her something more. And I couldn’t take her to a crime scene,” Sherlock explains as John looks up sharply. “No, I  _ wouldn’t _ take her to a crime scene. I never had the desire. I just wanted her to be happy with me.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John says, but now John just sounds sad and that doesn’t make sense to Sherlock. He barrels through the rest of the explanation anyway.

 

“So I set this up. A clean, safe environment where I could show her… what it’s like. What we do. Our work. She loves it, John. She’s… she’s just like you,” Sherlock finishes. 

 

John sighs heavily, adjusting Rosie in his arms. He turns to look more closely at the room they’re in, walks over to the photos laid on the floor and touches one with the edge of his shoe.

 

“I was absolutely furious when I saw that photo from Lestrade, you know,” John says. 

 

“I know,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t need any help imagining what John might look like at that level of anger.

 

“Not at first, if I’m being honest,” John says, his tone shifting abruptly. “The two of you looked so wonderful together, in your element. Rosie was captivated, I could tell.”

 

John looks over at Sherlock, only a slight frown remaining on his face. Thankfully, his eyes betray his relief and happiness, and the knot inside Sherlock’s stomach loosens considerably. 

 

“I don’t know what I would have done if you’d lied to me, Sherlock. If you’d put her in danger,” John says.

 

“I’d expect nothing less than a slow and painful death,” Sherlock replies. It startles a laugh out of John.

 

“Maybe,” John says, running a hand over his face as he sighs. Rosie shifts in his arms and he brings his hand to rest lightly against her cheek. “Maybe. I don’t think it’s that simple.”

 

Sherlock waits for him to continue, watching as he studies Rosie. Moments pass before he seems to find the right words.

 

“We can’t do this without you, Sherlock. We really can’t,” John says, finally looking up.

 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to say to that, so he says nothing.

 

“That’s why I was furious, I think. Assuming that you’d put her in danger, knowing I couldn’t walk away if I needed to.”

 

“But I didn’t,” Sherlock says quietly. “I would not and I never will, John. As long as it’s within my power.”

 

John smiles. Rosie finally tugs a button loose and regains his attention.

 

“Good. That’s good,” he says, fixing the button. “We should get her home for dinner, I think. I don’t know how long this mood will last and I want to try the peas tonight.”

 

“She’ll like those,” Sherlock says, handing John the baby carrier harness from where it was resting on the table. John hands Rosie to Sherlock while he straps the carrier onto his chest.

 

“Will she?” John asks, curiosity evident in his tone. “And what complicated deduction led you to that conclusion? I’m sure it’s something in her height or the amount of drool she produced today.”

 

“We had some for lunch,” Sherlock says with a smirk. 

 

John’s laughter is loud and unashamed as he finishes fitting the carrier and Sherlock can’t help but join in. It feels good to laugh together, to relieve some of the tension that’s been carried between them for so long now.

 

Sherlock puts the room back in order while John makes sure Rosie is situated correctly, offering bits of the case and some of Rosie’s deductions as he stacks photos and moves boxes.

 

“I’m almost certain that she sneezed on the correct suspect’s photo on purpose,” Sherlock says, tucking the last of the photos into the casefile.

 

“Did you hear that, Rosie? Your snot solved a crime,” John says to Rosie. 

 

“At this rate, she’ll be solving major cases by the time she’s a teenager,” Sherlock continues.

 

“Christ. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, yeah?” John replies, opening the door for Sherlock to lead them through. “How about we just focus on getting home?”

 

They walk through the Yard, side-by-side like old times. Though with Rosie, everything feels different; Sherlock isn’t sure why, but it feels like possibilites. It feels like a beginning.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock responds, smiling back at John and Rosie. “Home sounds perfect.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you - I wouldn't be writing at all if it weren't for fic and all of the readers involved.
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/HeadCumbernerd) or [tumblr](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) if you fancy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return to Baker Street to talk about what they want from each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!! 
> 
> I've been sitting on this for a bit, but I was determined to bring the chapter of feels and smut that I had intended to give. With the help of my always patient and ever encouraging beta, [myowneviltwin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myowneviltwin/pseuds/myowneviltwin), I am here to present you with over 8,000 words of lots of feelings and emotional smut. Enjoy?

 

The ride back to Baker Street is a calm, domestic affair. Sherlock watches the buildings blur into nothing, lets the comfort of London envelop him in some kind of peace. 

 

John fusses over Rosie in the seat next to him, arranging her tufts of hair, straightening a loosened sock. Sherlock shifts his attention to watch them instead, silently charmed by John’s parental instincts coming through. If John notices, he doesn't say anything. 

 

They pull up to 221 in good time and Sherlock tips the cabbie generously for a quick and uneventful ride. John leaves the door unlocked and open, waiting for Sherlock at the base of the stairs. 

 

“I'll settle her down for a nap, I think. She looks worn out and I'm craving Chinese,” John says as they make their way up to the landing.

 

“Baby monitor is upstairs already. Shall I order in?” Sherlock asks, hopeful.

 

“Perfect,” John answers, already on his way up the second flight.

 

Sherlock switches on the baby monitor by the couch and flips the volume up all the way. He can hear John speaking to Rosie: sweet platitudes and words of comfort that make Sherlock feel safe as well. 

 

Once Sherlock calls in their order, he finds himself pacing the length of the living room, going over the events of today: being trusted to take care of Rosie, wanting to do his best, testing that trust inadvertently, and proving to John that he can do this. He can be a parent, or a partner. Or both.

 

So much has happened between them over all of these years together, and barely any of it acknowledged. Sherlock allows John the same mistake he’d made of underestimating each other; even with that forgiveness, a monumental conversation feels inevitable. 

 

Sherlock knows he wants to be a part of Rosie’s life, unambiguously. He wants to keep John in his life, as well. He doesn't know how much he's allowed to ask for, or how much John is willing to give.

 

If he's being honest with himself, he wants everything. He didn’t understand what that meant, before. But so much as happened and essentially, John has changed everything.

 

Sherlock plops down onto the couch, head resting in his hands so he can rake his fingers through his curls: a way to stimulate his brain physically in the hopes that an answer will present itself mentally.

 

Minutes pass and nothing comes. If this were a case, Sherlock would talk it through with John. He’d present the facts as he knows them and wait for John to ask the right questions, to point him in the direction of the truth.

 

He hears John’s slow tread on the stairs and decides that, though this information is much more sensitive, it needs John’s input just the same. Maybe this time they’ll be able to find the answer together.

 

With no small amount of courage and mostly impatience driving him, Sherlock sits up and watches John enter the living room.

 

“John, we should… talk,” Sherlock begins before he loses the courage.

 

John is pulling off his shoes by the door, leaning against the frame as he pulls the laces of his brown oxfords loose. He smiles, just a little.

 

“Oh, you’re breaking up with me, then?” John replies, chuckling to himself. 

 

“What?” Sherlock says, stunned. He hadn’t expected the conversation to take such a turn, and so quickly.

 

John looks confused for a moment before he realizes his blunder.

 

“Oh, Sherlock-- shit, sorry. It’s what people say before… when they have... problems. With their relationship. You have a ‘talk’ and it always starts with those words,” John explains.

 

“Ah, I see,” Sherlock replies, still not really understanding.

 

“Like in films or-” John stops, sighing. “Just-- just forget I said it. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

 

John smiles at him kindly, taking a seat on the couch next to where Sherlock is perched.

 

Sherlock takes a moment, the crease between his eye furrowing deeper. 

 

“Today was… enlightening for me, John. I’m often unsure about where I stand with you, especially now,” Sherlock begins, his eyes fixed to some spot on the floor.

 

“Sherlock--” 

 

“No, please,” Sherlock looks up. “Let me just say this.”

 

Sherlock waits for John to nod before he continues. He can’t quite maintain eye contact, not yet, so he fiddles with his shirt cuff as he looks down again.

 

“I lost your trust, when I left. I lost it again when I relapsed. I know that,” Sherlock says. “And I’m sorry for it. Not for leaving, because I had to. There was no other choice. But I’m sorry for what I put you through.”

 

Sherlock waits a moment before continuing. John is silent, his face neutral.

 

“I’m an addict and a human. I make mistakes, especially when I’m… confused,” Sherlock explains. He’s not sure he can admit that he turned back to the drugs because John left him, but he can give John some kind of apology, some explanation for it to hopefully make sense. “I began using again because I didn’t see another choice. I was in pain and felt like I was truly alone for the first time in years. I was scared and stupid.”

 

Sherlock looks up at John, his eyes darting between John’s as he takes a breath.

 

“I was also wrong. I pushed you away, and I’m sorry for that. I won’t-- no. I might make a mistake again. I probably will. But John,” Sherlock says as he leans forward, very serious. “I will never, ever intentionally harm you or Rosie. No matter what choices I have or what the consequences might be for me, I know what’s important and I am  _ not _ going to let that be taken from me again.”

 

John looks a bit shocked, but doesn’t make any effort to pull away from Sherlock. They’re sitting closely together on the couch, knees not touching but bodies angled toward each other.

 

“I wanted to make that perfectly clear. My apology and my promise,” Sherlock finishes.

 

John smiles, a touch nervous but genuine. He watches Sherlock fidget under his gaze, the silence stretching as they decide what to say next.

 

“Then I should say,” John starts, his voice a bit rougher than he expected. He clears his throat before continuing. “I forgive you. Completely. On one condition.”

 

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, though he knows that whatever it is, he will agree.

 

John reaches for Sherlock’s hand, a hesitant touch to his fingers where they rest on the couch cushion. When Sherlock doesn’t pull away, John’s touch turns firm and he grasps Sherlock’s hand in his as he looks up.

 

“Don’t ever do that again. Ever,” John repeats, emphasizing the word with a slight squeeze of his hand. “I meant what I said today. I can’t-- Rosie and I, we can’t do this without you.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock says, squeezing back. “I agree.”

 

John laughs, a relieved, breathy sort of chuckle that breaks through the tension of the moment. 

 

“Good,” John says, releasing Sherlock’s hand with one last squeeze. He’s fully smiling now, a wide grin that creases his eyes. It’s Sherlock’s favorite and one he hasn’t seen in a long time. 

 

Sherlock smiles in return, feeling the unease in his stomach slip away somewhat. John shifts across from him, wiping his palms onto his jeans and flexing his fingers: his own nervous tic. Sherlock makes an inquiring noise.

 

“Well, it’s-” John starts. “We should…”

 

“John,” Sherlock says. “Please, just be honest with me.”

 

“I know. I’m trying,” John answers, taking his turn at staring at the floor.

 

“There’s really not anything I can think of that would put me off at this point,” Sherlock admits. “If that’s what you’re worried about. We’ve seen each other at our very worst, I would say. And we’re still here, together, aren’t we?”

 

“Yes,” John answers easily, smiling again as he looks up. “We’re mad for it, but yes.”

 

Sherlock laughs as he nods in agreement.

 

“So,” John begins again. “We should define what that means. Your involvement in our lives, that is. That’s why I-- well, if we’re doing this together, then I need to know…” John trails off.

 

“Just ask me, John,” Sherlock prompts impatiently.

 

“What is it that you want, Sherlock?” John asks.

 

Sherlock isn’t expecting such a direct inquiry, if the look on his face is anything to go by. He searches for an answer, the possibilities and consequences of each overwhelming him. He decides instead to present the facts, like he would a case. Start with the simple and incontrovertible. 

 

“I want to be a part of Rosie’s life. As her… her…” Sherlock stutters here, unsure of the correct term. “Guardian,” He blurts.

 

John’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but Sherlock barrels forward, both exhilarated and terrified by the confession.

 

“I would like to be trusted to care for her, when you need me to. I want to help you, John. You are important to me, so she is important to me. I made a vow, and though I’ve made mistakes, I don’t intend to fall slack any longer. I want to be your partner in this, John,” Sherlock says, gaining steam toward the end.

 

The moment fills with silence as the weight of Sherlock’s words settle in. No matter how painful, inconvenient, or some combination of the two, he has supported and protected John in the ways he thought were right. He’d befriended Mary, though every smile felt like a lie.

 

He did it for John Watson because he would do anything for John Watson.

 

“Alright,” John says, breaking his reverie.

 

Sherlock waits for the counter argument, but none comes. 

 

“Really?” Sherlock asks.

 

“You… care about Rosie? About us?” John asks.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answers quickly. That question is simple for him.

 

“And you want us here. For the… future,” John says.

 

“Well I imagine at some point we’ll retire outside of the city, probably once Rosie goes to college. Hmm, I’ll need to start researching possible courses of study and compare the closest schools,” Sherlock says, already making a mental list of tasks.

 

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. “We’ll save that conversation for later.”

 

Sherlock smiles, the conversation already going much better than he expected.

 

“I have no claim over Rosie, legally. And as we’ve seen often in cases, that’s where it matters. Mycroft can’t always pull those strings for me and I want to be able to… contribute.”

 

John crosses his arms, a strange expression coming over his face.

 

“And what makes you think you have a claim?” 

 

It’s a fair question, to be sure. Sherlock is not legally or biologically connected to Rosie in any way. In fact, it would be difficult to connect the two on paper at all. And that’s the exact reason why Sherlock wants to make sure that he can.

 

“Because I love her. And it’s important to protect my family, my friends. Even if I used to believe differently, these past years have… changed that,” Sherlock finishes quietly. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t look up until he hears a noise from John. His face is making another strange expression, but Sherlock thinks it might be alright, because his eyes are watering and his mouth is smiling.

 

“That’s… yeah that’s--” John stops to clear his throat. “Okay. That’s good. Something on paper so it’s official makes sense to me. I’ll need some time to think it over, but…I’m… glad you asked.” 

 

Sherlock nods, bracing himself to continue. He sighs, trying to find the words for the outcome he desires. John chuckles, tilting his head in question.

 

“Is there something else?” John asks.

 

Sherlock looks off toward the kitchen, his eyes resting on John’s empty chair. He remembers those horrible days of nothing but memories, distant and untouchable. He had moved the chair out of desperation when he was high and couldn’t find it for weeks. He was terrified that he’d sold it or destroyed it, until a trip to the roof for a smoke revealed that he’d hidden it under a tarp near some unused planks of wood and kitchen tiles.

 

He knew then that having it back where it belonged would be a painful reminder, but that the opposite was unfathomable. He knew then that having John is his life in whatever capacity he was allowed was better than nothing at all.

 

John asking him so patiently for the things that  _ he  _ wants feels like an indulgence. It’s one that he plans to take advantage of while he still can. He allows himself to think of the desires he’d tried to bury, the thoughts he’d locked away as soon as they broke the surface, unbidden but not unwanted, nearly every day since he met John Watson.

 

“I would like her to meet my parents. They can come here,” Sherlock says, still dodging.

 

“She’ll be spoiled rotten by them, I’m sure,” John says with a chuckle. “I think that’s a great idea. Could be really good for her.”

 

Sherlock nods. 

 

“Anything else?” John asks, leaning forward to catch Sherlock’s eye.

 

Sherlock looks up at him, terrified but hopeful. His love for John has been a constant thing, sometimes hidden to protect him, ignored on the worst of days else it cause too much harm. He opens that part of himself, trusting John as he always has.

 

“I want--”

 

And suddenly, the doorbell rings. Sherlock’s sentence is cut off, his brain switching gears so quickly that he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to be doing at this moment.

 

He stares dumbly at John until his flatmate springs into action.

 

“Right! The food. I’ll get it,” John scrambles to his feet. “Probably for the best.”

 

He’s smiling as he stands, but something on Sherlock’s face makes him stop dead.

 

“Sherlock, what… Oh!” He says, taking a step towards Sherlock. “No, I meant best for... best that we… eat… because…” John trails off, looks up for a breath.

 

“Dammit. I mean I’m glad the food is here so we can eat. And after,” John leans forward. “We are finishing that conversation, alright Sherlock? We are picking up right where you left off.” He speaks the last sentence staring straight at Sherlock’s lips.

 

His eyes dance over John’s face, taking in the pupil size and approximate pulse. Each sign he picks up is telling him that John’s reaction, had he been able to finish his request, would have been favorable.

 

Sherlock is glad John has volunteered to retrieve the food, because he is currently  _ very _ angry with the delivery person.

 

When Sherlock looks back up, John is licking his lips and leaning back.

 

“Grab us a drink, yeah?” John says with a wink. 

 

He’s jogging down the stairs before Sherlock is able to function once more. He pulls himself to standing, distantly aware of John’s voice filtering up the stairs. He’s apologizing to the teenager handing over their food for taking so long, explaining that the television was too loud and most likely slipping an extra couple pounds for the tip.

 

Sherlock reaches for the Stella stashed in the back of the fridge; it’s one of John’s favorites and he usually keeps a stash in the fridge. Sherlock thinks tonight could use a bit of liquid courage.

 

Sherlock pops the top off each bottle and brings them back into the living room just as John is walking in with the food.

 

“Can you set this up while I check on Rosie?” John asks. “She's probably hungry.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock answers, already reaching for the bags. John hands them over and turns back to the stairs, climbing quietly as he nears his room.

 

Sherlock lays out their food, grabbing two plates from the kitchen and spooning various entrees onto his dish. He takes most of the chow mein, leaving a few scoops for John. It’s Sherlock’s favorite, but John likes to mix the noodles with the last couple bites of his sweet and sour chicken. The egg rolls and crab rangoon he splits equally.

 

“Smells brilliant, thank you,” John says behind Sherlock as he enters the room.

 

“For making a phone call? You’re welcome, John,” Sherlock answers, pulling his full plate onto his lap to better access to the noodles.

 

John takes the seat next to him, breath escaping in a short huff as he holds in his laughter. Sherlock smiles, looking at John from under his eyelashes. Feeling brave, he nudges John’s knee with his own.

 

John winks again, pushing his knee in return and pressing their legs together as he picks up his own plate. Sherlock feels his ears go pink.

 

“Rosie was sound asleep. Didn’t have the heart to wake her,” John says as he slices a fried piece of chicken in half with his fork and dunks it in the sweet, red sauce.

 

“Hm,” Sherlock replies, slurping a bundle of noodles and thinly-sliced vegetables into his mouth.

 

“After today… I figured she was tired. She’ll wake me in the middle of the night, anyway,” John finishes, fond even with his complaints.

 

“Most of the research claims she should be receptive to a regular schedule at this age,” Sherlock says.

 

John finishes chewing his bite and takes a sip of his beer before he smirks over at Sherlock.

 

“You did research?” Sounding hopeful rather than surprised.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock answers, focused intently on swirling another bite of noodles onto his fork. He takes a healthy drink from his bottle and tries to ignore the slight tremor in his fingers. John is still looking at him.

 

“What are your thoughts on homemade baby food?” Sherlock asks, nervousness propelling him into conversation.

 

John doesn’t seem to mind, laughing as they launch into a discussion over the benefits of sweet potatoes versus peas. The dinner passes pleasantly this way until Sherlock mentions Mrs. Hudson’s birthday present; it’s a passing comment, but it drudges painful and fresh wounds to the surface. The two of them had been wrapped up in the mess that was Sherlock’s sister when the day passed what feels like years but is only some months ago.

 

John grows quiet, focusing on his food and only breaking his silence to ask Sherlock if he wants another beer once they both finish theirs. Sherlock tries a hesitant smile when John returns from the kitchen with the two beers in hand, but John is miles away in his thoughts.

 

Sherlock waits patiently though every minute that passes is torture. Hoping for John to open himself up, to speak honestly and earnestly like Sherlock had done for him.

 

Once they've finished, John gathers their plates and the empty containers while Sherlock disposes their bottles and tucks away the leftovers. When he turns from the fridge, John is sitting on the couch, a very determined expression on his features. Sherlock doesn’t want to walk back into the room.

 

“Sherlock?” John calls as he looks up some time later, realizing Sherlock hasn’t returned. John takes one look at Sherlock’s face and smiles.

 

“Oh come on, it's just me, yeah?” He tries.

 

Sherlock huffs through his nose; it's almost a laugh but he's not smiling at all. Instead, he squares his shoulders and marches into the living room.

 

“That's just it, John. It's frightening because it  _ is  _ you, and you matter. I don't want… I can't lose our friendship,” Sherlock explains as he sits.

 

“I know,” John answers. “I know. I'm sorry, i didn’t mean to worry you. I'm… I have to say something, okay? I have to do this.”

 

Sherlock nods, expecting the worst and hoping that John is at least kind in his rejection.

 

“I am so, so sorry for hurting you when we were with Culverton Smith. That bastard just… well, no. No excuses. I shouldn't have done that,” John says, looking off toward the wall, no doubt going over the painful events of that day. “It was awful and unwarranted, and you should honestly kick me to the curb for being such an arse.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, but John stops him before he can speak, grabbing his hand tightly and turning his body to face him.

 

“No, Sherlock. Listen. I need you to understand that it was a terrible thing for me to hurt you, physically, like that. No person should ever treat their friend that way. Ever.”

 

“Ok,” Sherlock answers, unsure.

 

“Ok? No, you need to say it. Tell me I was an arse, please,” John begs.

 

“You-- why? I don't blame y--” Sherlock starts.

 

John raises his hand to silence Sherlock.

 

“Please, just say it. For me.”

 

“Alright. You were an arsehole for beating me up,” Sherlock says, though he doesn't mean it as much as he should.

 

“Good,” John says, taking a deep breath. “Now… can you forgive me?”

 

“I already have,” Sherlock answers.

 

“You let me get away with it. But I haven't truly apologized, and I needed to. So. Can you forgive me for being awful, Sherlock?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock's hand even tighter. “I don't ever want to hurt you like that, ever again. I won't, and I swear that to you.”

 

Sherlock looks at John, trying his best to push his emotions to the side. He lets himself analyze John's face, really hear his words, to see if he's telling the truth. He considers the facts, the evidence of their past and John's emotional state now. He removes himself from the situation as much as he can before he decides on his answer.

 

“Yes, I forgive you.”

 

John positively beams at Sherlock, changing his grip from a strangling vice to a gentle hold, pulling the hand, and Sherlock, a little closer.

 

“Thank you,” he says. “I don't deserve it, but thank you.”

 

“John, you and I both know that I am quite an arsehole myself. What we deserve doesn’t really matter, in the end. It's the choices we make,” Sherlock says.

 

“Wow,” John replies, genuinely surprised by the thoughtfulness of the comment.

 

“Well, that, and the fact that moral code hardly factors into truly impactful decisions in a way that reflects at least the majority's view, but…” Sherlock trails off.

 

John chuckles.

 

“Right. Makes sense,” he says, shifting to a more comfortable position, pressing his side against Sherlock’s. “So. We were talking about things you wanted,” John begins.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, staring at the hand John is still holding. He tries to summon the courage he had before, tries to remember John’s previous reactions.

 

“Like more responsibilities with Rosie. Which is good. I trust you with her,” John says.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. “I won’t let you down, John.”

 

“I’m holding you to that,” John says, smiling.

 

Sherlock looks down at their fingers, nearly intertwined. John brushes his thumb slowly over Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock takes a deep breath.

 

“I want to be your partner,” Sherlock says. John’s thumb keeps moving.

 

“Can I ask… exactly what you mean by that?” John asks.

 

“Emotionally, socially, every sense of the word,” Sherlock answers. 

 

“Romantically?” John asks.

 

Sherlock looks up.

 

“Yes,” he answers, watching John’s face as he reacts. It mostly suprise, with something that Sherlock thinks looks like relief.

 

“You want that? With me?” John questions further, brow furrowing as Sherlock nods in response. “I thought you didn’t… I thought you weren’t interested in romantic entanglements. In that kind of… thing.”

 

“I thought I wasn’t, either. But you’ve changed my perspective on a lot of things, John,” Sherlock says, knowing this will be the first of many revelation.

 

“And just to… you mean dating. And touching, having… being together,” John clarifies.

 

“I mean sex, yes. And kissing. I really do want that,” Sherlock says, unable to keep his eyes from flickering down to John’s mouth.

 

John brings the arms resting on the back of the sofa to lie on Sherlock’s nape, resting above the collar but with his fingers dancing below. It sends a wave of goosebumps down Sherlock’s back as he leans into the touch.

 

“You’re telling me that Sherlock Holmes wants to be my boyfriend?” John says, teasing.

 

Sherlock intends to point out the mistakes in John’s question, something about the nature of binary terms and the social constructs of relationships. But what comes out is:

 

“Yes.”

 

John smiles, a little redness creeping onto his features. He looks down, clearing his throat.

 

“So you’re… gay,” John says.

 

“In the simplest terms, I suppose. I haven’t spent as much time analyzing my feelings as I have trying to suppress them,” Sherlock admits.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John says, quietly. “I’m sorry. I-- I didn’t know this was something I could have.”

 

He squeezes Sherlock’s hand again, takes a breath before his other hand slides tentatively over to cup Sherlock’s cheek. 

 

“I’ve... definitely spent a fair amount of time keeping my feelings hidden as well. Or at least trying to,” John says, a huff escaping at the end. “I thought I’d been quite obvious, actually. And then when you left…”

 

“Ah,” Sherlock says, brow furrowing. 

 

“Hey,” John says, leaning further into Sherlock’s space. “We’ve apologized to each other. We’re moving forward, this is good.”

 

“You sound like Ella,” Sherlock says, the comment slipping through his filter as John’s face comes closer, voice trembling a little. Sherlock can feel John’s chuckle against his lips.

 

“Really don’t want to think about my therapist right now,” John says.

 

“What do you want to think about?” Sherlock says, eyes fixed on the tongue that darts out to wet John’s lower lip.

 

“How I’m finally going to know what it feels like,” John answers in a whisper.

 

“What what feels like?” Sherlock asks, unable to resist.

 

“What it feels like,” John says against his lips. “To want you when I know you want me  _ back _ .”

 

Sherlock barely has a chance for the sharp intake of breath before John’s mouth is crushing against his, the firm pressure a constant in this otherwise dream-like moment. Sherlock can feel the heat of John directly against his face; his eyes attempt to focus, overwhelmed with the amount of data available this close. 

 

John’s hand at his cheek slides into his curls while the other is released from Sherlock’s grasp to climb up his shoulder slowly. Sherlock lets his own hands come to rest at John’s waist and his broad thigh, clenching his eyes shut as he throws himself back into the kiss.

 

They pull apart just long enough to tilt and slot their lips together once more; John’s attention is fixed to Sherlock’s upper lip as he sucks gently before running just the tip of his tongue across that tantalizing shape. Sherlock moans, a small, rough thing at the back of his throat that John hears anyway.

 

John nudges with his tongue as they pull apart and come together twice more, then three times. As soon as Sherlock opens his mouth, John is there, capturing Sherlock’s lips and caressing them gently with his own.

 

It’s sensual but careful, slightly restrained for only as long as they’re able to manage.

 

John’s tongue delves deeper, and soon Sherlock’s is pushing into his mouth. Sherlock’s hand has climbed all the way up John’s thigh and one of John’s hands has found its way to Sherlock’s waist. At the first touch of skin where Sherlock’s shirt has pulled out of his trousers, Sherlock pulls away, startled by the touch.

 

They’re both gasping for air and clearly aroused. Sherlock’s eyes dance over John’s body.

 

“You alright?” John asks, his attention torn between Sherlock’s gaze and his slightly-swollen lips.

 

“Yes, very,” Sherlock answers, hoping his eagerness will encourage John to take the reigns in a situation that he doesn’t have much experience with. 

 

“Good,” John answers before he pushes Sherlock down onto the cushion, his head brushing against the armrest. The position twists Sherlock at the waist, so he pulls his legs onto the couch while John moves to straddle him.

 

A lascivious grin is the only warning he gets before John is kissing him again. 

 

Where the first few minutes of kissing were tender, these are intense and passionate. John holds himself above Sherlock, their chests occasionally brushing as he chases after Sherlock’s lips.

 

Sherlock’s hands wander up and down John’s back, the strong length of muscle and bone as enticing to him as the rest of John. That is, until his hands travel down and find John’s arse. He squeezes and pushes, bringing their clothed cocks together in a blinding moment of delicious friction.

 

John breaks away from their kiss, panting into Sherlock’s neck as his hips grind downwards.

 

“Oh god,” John says, moaning as Sherlock thrusts upward. John latches onto Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking across that column of skin.

 

“John,” Sherlock pleads, tilting his neck back and asking for more.

 

“Gorgeous,” John murmurs as he nibbles on Sherlock’s ear.

 

Sherlock plants his feet on the couch, bending his legs and gaining more leverage. The result is nearly too good.

 

“Fuck,” John mutters, pulling back to look down at them rutting together.

 

Sherlock is sure he looks ridiculous, lips red with matching splotches high on his cheeks and throat, hair disheveled, and shirt askew. John looks back up at him with something like wonder in his eyes, sporting a matching hairstyle and thoroughly-used lips of his own.

 

“Bedroom?” He asks, stilling his hips. Sherlock manages a nod.

 

It takes a moment for them to stand, blood returning back to the appropriate places. Sherlock feels strange, like the fluttering in his stomach has spread through to his limbs. 

 

John looks over at him, smiling as he extends a hand. Sherlock takes it and John leads him down the hall to his room.

 

“Bigger bed,” John says in the way of explanation as he pushes open Sherlock’s bedroom door.

 

The room is neat and clean, the unmade bed Sherlock didn’t bother to make this morning the only sign of disturbance. John walks over, tossing the comforter to the end and smoothing down the sheets haphazardly. 

 

He tugs Sherlock’s hand as he sits at the edge of the bed, pulling Sherlock closer when he moves just a inch away. Sherlock smiles, going willingly though his eyes are glued to their joined hands. His ears burn, the sensation spreading through his chest.

 

“Are you… is this okay?” John asks, reading Sherlock’s nervousness as second thoughts.

 

Sherlock looks up at John: his best friend, his conductor of light, the only person he could ever love, the only person he’s ever  _ wanted _ to love. John Watson defied every rule Sherlock had crafted, broke through every wall he built. 

 

“Yes. Yes, it’s fine,” Sherlock says, feeling safe as he says the words. He drags his hand up John’s thigh, stopping short of the growing crease in his jeans. John’s breath speeds up, but he doesn’t move. Sherlock squeezes and John’s breath hitches.

 

“John,” he says. 

 

John responds instantly, closing the distance between them before Sherlock can get a proper breath. John employs many of the extremely effective kissing tactics that he had for their couch snog, but with the added benefit of roaming hands. It seems that Sherlock’s encouragement and the change in location has inspired John, and Sherlock feels his hands nearly everywhere all at once. It should be impossible, but Sherlock’s head is tipped sideways by a hand in his hair while another brushes over his nipple, and then suddenly there’s a grip at his nape and fingertips on his jaw.

 

Sherlock finally manages to make his arms function, the hand on John’s thigh completing its journey.

 

“Oh, Christ,” John hisses as Sherlock presses against the hardness there. 

 

Sherlock takes advantage of the distraction and nuzzles along John’s jaw, pressing kisses as he makes his way down John’s neck. It’s a favorite area of Sherlock’s, and one he is quite looking forward to spending a lot of time with going forward.

 

John allows himself a dozen or so thrusts into Sherlock’s welcoming palm before he pulls Sherlock back into a deep kiss. John moans, a deep-throated thing that Sherlock can feel vibrate through his lips. John pulls back after a moment, panting as he presses his forehead to Sherlock’s.

 

“Can we…?” John suggests, tugging them back toward the pillows.

 

Sherlock nods, licking his lips as he stares at John’s mouth, planning his next assault. John grins, toeing off his brown loafers and socks in record time. 

 

Sherlock blinks and suddenly John has moved out of his reach, shifting to lay back on the pillows, and Sherlock scrambles to join him. He’s halfway to his goal when he remembers his shoes, tossing them off with a grunt and pulling his socks free as quick as he can manage. He’s bent over the side of the bed and still wrestling with his socks when he hears John chuckle from behind him.

 

Sherlock stops, looking back at John with a glare.

 

“Something funny?” Sherlock asks, the words a bit more transparent than he intended.

 

“No,” John answers immediately as he moves to lean toward Sherlock at the side of the bed.

 

Sherlock feels John’s warm palm slide up his back, carefully and slowly. John’s arm strokes up and down, smooth and firm, until Sherlock feels the tension release. John must feel it too: his fingers dance lower with every pass until he tugs aside the hem of Sherlock’s shirt to let his hand graze over the skin beneath.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, still facing away from John but leaning back into the touch.

 

“I was just thinking about how long this has taken us, and how much I’ve always wanted it,” John continues to explain, his voice low and quiet so Sherlock has to lean even closer to hear. “And then I saw you and how you were… eager, like me. And then I thought about how bloody lucky I am.”

 

A second of silence, and then Sherlock is on the move, sure that he’s pulled something with how quickly he twists and clambers over John. He can’t be arsed to care at the moment. He gets his mouth on John’s as quickly as he can, and that’s what matters.

 

John laughs into the kiss, creating lovely vibrations that Sherlock licks and nips into with delight.

 

Sherlock shifts his knees so he’s straddling John, which turns out to be an optimal position for snogging as well as disrobing. Sherlock’s fingers work down the neat line of John’s current button-down, the room filled with the soft shuffle of the fabric and quiet smacks of their lips. 

 

Sherlock pulls himself away from John, a feat that is only possible because his brain knows now that there is more of John’s skin to see and  _ observe _ . Sherlock’s eyes dance along John’s bare chest, fingers trailing and lips following soon after. Sherlock licks and mouths along John’s stomach, pulling John’s shirt free of his trousers and arms as though unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

 

Sherlock hasn't even realized he’s stopped, frozen in movement as he hovers about John, until the man speaks below him.

 

“Something wrong?” John asks, very carefully.

 

Sherlock blinks once, twice, three times for good measure. There is so much data before him, and so much  _ emotion _ clouding all of that data, he isn’t sure where to start. And a very large part of him wants to completely disregard data and get his mouth back on that skin as soon as possible.

 

“No, I--” Sherlock begins, unsure how to explain. 

 

John waits, trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s clothed thighs. 

 

“It was a lot, all of a sudden. And I…” Sherlock tries to clear his throat a bit. “I didn’t realize how much I wanted it.”

 

Though Sherlock might intend the statement to be more metaphorical, John’s eyes immediately darken. He pulls Sherlock down by a hand on his nape and another clenching onto his back. It’s fast and a little rough; Sherlock groans into the kiss, unable to suppress the shifting and thrust of his hips as they search for friction. His cock makes contact with John’s through their many layers and they both pull back, gasping for breath.

 

“Damn jeans,” John grunts as their movements grow in intensity. 

 

Sherlock shifts back, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping the material away and off with a quick kick of his legs. He looks up at John, whose eyes have been glued to Sherlock and whose fingers have not made any progress on his own button and zip. He leans back on his hands, displaying his very tight black briefs and nearly naked body in a moment of newly-found boldness.

 

“Honestly, John, you’re supposed to have the experience here,” Sherlock says, unable to resist. It’s a familiar thing to poke fun at John, and the twist of flirtation and attraction only improves the situation.

 

John practically rips his jeans off at that, tossing the offending pair off into the corner as he lunges toward Sherlock.

 

“Bastard,” John growls before knocking Sherlock’s arm away so he’s lying flat on his back again. Sherlock laughs as John captures his mouth.

 

The kisses turn from nips and laughter to tongues and moans, until they’re barely kisses at all. John gives Sherlock one last swipe across his bottom lip before he pulls back completely.

 

“I was just thinking again,” John begins, a wondrous smile on his face. “About how lucky I am. How incredible you are. You are absolutely brilliant, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock feels his cheeks burn and tries his best to smother the urge to scoff or give a clever retort. Instead, he focuses on the warmth in John’s words, the evidence of his affection written all over his face. Sherlock drinks it in, storing each piece in a safe place in his Mind Palace: the surprise for this change in their relationship, the excitement for a new adventure together, the pure happiness at having something he’s wanted suddenly placed in close reach. 

 

Sherlock cherishes every sign he reads and smiles at John in return. 

 

“Our conversation before…it made me realize that the way that I feel, about you,” John says, splaying his hands across Sherlock’s pale chest. “I don't show it often enough. So… can I show you? Now?”

 

Sherlock is silent as John leans closer, kissing Sherlock’s nipple, letting his other hand wander to its partner. Sherlock shudders, the sensation from each side making it harder to breathe, harder to keep still. John continues his journey to the other side, mouthing and nibbling on flesh as he goes.

 

“Can I show you what you mean to me, Sherlock?” John repeats, Sherlock only managing a whimper in response. John shifts his attention to sucking on his nipple once more and Sherlock’s eyes clamp shut, his mouth opening on a wordless gasp.

 

John continues his assault until Sherlock’s hands are gripping the sheets. Finally, he relents, grinning like mad as he looks up at Sherlock. All Sherlock can manage is a glance down before he has to close his eyes again, the sight of John between his legs with intention in his eyes nearly too much.

 

John runs his hands lightly up Sherlock’s bare thighs, skating the edge of his dark briefs. His fingernails scrape  _ just slightly _ as his mouth draws closer to Sherlock’s erection, Sherlock’s hips shifting and reaching while John teases.

 

“ _ John _ ,” Sherlock says, intending for snark to prompt action, but the name comes out as a needy whine.

 

John looks up at Sherlock from his position down at the end of the bed, now laying comfortably between Sherlock’s bent and restless legs. He brushes his warm mouth over the wetness growing in Sherlock’s pants, applying the smallest amount of pressure.

 

“John, John please,” Sherlock says, his voice desperate and rough.

 

“What, Sherlock?” John asks innocently. 

 

Sherlock manages a glare down at John this time, huffing even though his hips continue to move. John takes pity, dropping a quick and unexpected kiss right to the tip of Sherlock’s cock through his pants before slipping the offending garment off and away.

 

Warm hands frame his groin as Sherlock sighs, his cock free of the restraint but now exposed and without any friction whatsoever. He takes a slow breath through his nose.

 

“Show me, John,” He manages, barely above a whisper. He clears his throat, looking down at John again. “Show me what I mean to you.”

 

Their eyes hold, locked in this moment of vulnerability and emotion together, something fundamental and  _ right _ sliding into place at last. 

 

John moves toward him until he's hovering above Sherlock, leaning on one hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek with the other. 

 

“Everything,” John murmurs, and it takes Sherlock a moment to realize he’s answering the prompt. “You mean everything to me, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John kisses him then, thoroughly and soundly. Sherlock tries to wrap his legs around John’s hip as their tongues slide together, but John just chuckles and holds him at bay. Sherlock growls in frustration as John pulls his lips away with a wet smack.

 

“Not quite done with you, yet,” John says, winking as he maneuvers back down between Sherlock’s legs. It’s all the warning Sherlock has before his cock is swiftly engulfed in John’s extremely wet and perfectly warm mouth. 

 

John spends what feels to Sherlock like hours sucking his cock, drawing Sherlock closer to the inevitably earth-shattering orgasm he surely has in his future. John swallows Sherlock down before drawing back, focusing suction on the head before licking his way back down again. Anything that has Sherlock gasping or babbling incoherently, he repeats until Sherlock is shouting at him to stop.

 

“John, John I--” Sherlock tries to say, rasping between his panting breaths. “Please John. Here. Closer, please come.” Sherlock flails his limbs and grasps for John, trying to bring him closer with as few words as possible.

 

John is equally ravaged, his hair a mess of sweat and ruffled spikes that frames his saliva-slicked, red face. Sherlock thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his entire life and stores this particular memory somewhere  _ very _ safe.

 

“Sherlock,” John answers in kind as he pulls himself up next to Sherlock on the bed, draping himself over his side until they shift and tangle together. 

 

John peppers kisses over Sherlock’s flushed face, giving Sherlock time to breathe properly. John mumbles endearments as he travels across Sherlock’s skin, declaring each patch he finds “beautiful” or “gorgeous” or “perfect.” 

 

Sherlock regains function to his limbs and pulls John closer, glancing down in dismay when he feels cloth against his erection. 

 

“Dammit,” John grumbles, trying to pull away so he can take his pants off. Sherlock is no help, torn between watching John’s rather impressive length strain against the fabric and pushing his palm against that bulge in anticipation.

 

John moans at the pressure, his cock mostly neglected until this point. John lets out a string of colorful curses as he thrusts once, twice, three times into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock hums in encouragement as John’s hands fumble once more to pull off the briefs.

 

John gets his pants halfway down one leg and all the way off the other before Sherlock has decided it’s taken long enough and plasters himself against John from chest to hip.

 

“Need you closer,” Sherlock says, slotting his leg in between John’s. Their erections finally meet and their moans echo each other's loudly in the quiet room.

 

The friction is incredible, Sherlock’s cock slick with spit and saliva while John’s leaks steadily against his stomach. They pant into each other's mouths, moving closer to their climax and the release they seek together. John’s hips snap against Sherlock’s, driving him into the mattress and pushing their sweat-slicked bodies even closer. Sherlock’s hands clamp around John’s neck as he gasps, mouth open and neck bowed.

 

John reaches down and takes them both in his hand, leaning his body against Sherlock and moving them to their sides. He’s barely gripped Sherlock properly before Sherlock is coming in his hand, the rosy tip shooting streams of come across the space between them. Sherlock is caught in a silent shout as his body shudders, John’s hand slowly coaxing him through it.

 

“That’s it, fuck. Sherlock, so gorgeous. You’re incredible,” John proclaims in wonder, releasing Sherlock’s sensitive cock in favor of pulling him closer. 

 

Sherlock tucks his face against John’s shoulder, seeking comfort and safety as he comes back into himself again. He remembers immediately why he avoids sex with anyone he doesn’t truly care for: the trust and intimacy is so overwhelming for Sherlock, he simply can’t enjoy it if he doesn’t feel completely and utterly safe.

 

John’s hands rub along his back, and Sherlock smiles, breathing in their mingled scent. He waits for his heart rate to calm before he opens his eyes again. He looks down, drawing his thigh deliberately against John’s still extremely stiff cock. He earns a hiss in return as John’s hips involuntarily snap forward. Sherlock wraps his hand around John then, his come joining the pre-ejaculate already smeared down John’s length. John moans at the delicious slide, Sherlock’s long fingers providing the perfect channel for him to push into. It only takes a minute more before John is close.

 

“Fuck, perfect, fuck, I’m--” John mutters, eyes clamping shut. “Sherlock, I’m going to-- ah!” 

 

John shouts as he comes, Sherlock pulling him through it, watching in wonder as John leaks in pulses against his hand and his stomach. John’s chest heaves as he comes down, his limbs already feeling heavy and muscles well-worked. A few shivers rack through him, a chuckle bubbling up with the flood of endorphins. 

 

Sherlock is still holding John, his penis mostly soft in his hand. John presses a kiss into his curls, pulling Sherlock completely against him. Sherlock wraps his arms around John in response, nuzzling into the spot on his chest where Sherlock is nestled against. John smiles, closing his eyes in pure contentment. 

 

They fall asleep soon after, sated and wrapped in each other. The baby monitor wakes them a few blissful hours later, and John smiles as he rouses, even though it’s to the sound of his daughter’s hungry cries. 

 

Sherlock is plastered to him, their semen dried between their chests and clamped limbs. Sherlock grumbles at the noise, grimacing as he pulls his head back to look down between them.

 

“Yuck,” Sherlock says, and John can’t help the laughter that bursts forth. Sherlock attempts to glare at him.

 

“Not what I expected you to say, first thing,” John explains as he peels himself away. “Be right back.” 

 

Sherlock listens as John pads into the bathroom, waiting until he’s done with his quick stop in the loo before shuffling out of the bed as well. Sherlock uses the toilet and lets his eyes adjust before flipping on the light and grabbing a washcloth from under the sink.

 

He stops abruptly when he meets his eyes in the mirror: standing in his place is some lanky, unabashedly naked, bed-headed fool with multiple hickeys  _ all over _ his body and a stupid, sentimental smile on his face.

 

Sherlock carries that smile with him as he quickly wipes himself down before giving his teeth a quick brush and pads back into the bedroom. He shuts the curtains and strips away the dirtied sheet they were laying on, pulling up the duvet as he snuggles into the pillow. 

 

He listens to the sound of John finishing feeding Rosie over the baby monitor, his quiet murmuring as he goes through the routine of burping her and praising her when she does. Sherlock finds himself giggling with John over the baby monitor, proud of the gaseous child. 

 

Eventually, Rosie is settled back to sleep and John is on his way down the stairs. Sherlock shifts slightly, keeping the side closest to the door and baby monitor open for John. 

 

The bedrooms door creaks open just moment later, John walking as quietly as he can muster over to the bed. He slides underneath the covers and immediately reaches for Sherlock. They wrap around each other once more, Sherlock tucked into the curve of John’s body.

 

“You know, you’re primed to be a perfect parent,” John mumbles into his hair.

 

“Hm?” Sherlock prompts.

 

“You don’t sleep much,” John responds. 

 

“You forget, John,” Sherlock retorts, his deep voice loud in the early morning hours. “I’m incredibly lazy.”

 

John chuckles, shaking them both in their embrace.

 

“Nice try. It’s your turn next,” John says, pulling Sherlock tighter against him. “You signed up for this, remember.”

 

“Mmh, yes,” Sherlock agrees, smiling as he weaves his fingers with John’s on his chest. “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Smirk for giving me a parentlock prompt and unlocking the post-S4 fic I had hiding away. It felt really good to write this <3
> 
> THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR READING!! You are loved and appreciated. I wouldn't be here if folks weren't reading, and to know y'all are there is so damn important to me. Thank you.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/HeadCumbernerd) if you are...


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